


Runaway

by wocket



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV Second Person, Star Trek References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22864450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wocket/pseuds/wocket
Summary: Tim seeks refuge in Mike after being attacked.
Relationships: Tim McVeigh/Mike Fortier
Kudos: 2





	Runaway

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is.

_  
Tim knows what he is. He thought the way he felt was normal until people began to make sure he knew it wasn’t. From teasing at school to being pushed around on the playground, Tim heard the warnings of their lessons early on: crushes on boys weren’t something another boy should have. The other kids made that clear. Tim was taller and smarter, but that only seemed to make things worse, making him a target for the other kids, kids who thought nothing of pushing Tim to the ground and calling him names, reminding him of how different he was. They called him a homo and a faggot, dirty, ugly, words Tim didn’t understand at first, until he learned and realized he _was_ the thing he hated to be called on the playground or in the halls, a boy who looked at other boys, something everyone told him was wrong. _

_So Tim leaned into it, tried to find a way to use it before it could be used against him. By middle school he was telling people that he was gay - happy - pretending he had no clue what it meant. The other students laughed and laughed, while Tim wallowed in his aloneness, knowing he was admitting to the truth, revealing his true self under the guise of a game._

_Tim took things in stride until he couldn’t bear it anymore. He remembers the few times he brought his troubles home to his mother, the sharp sting of the back of her hand as he admitted why he’d been bullied. Mickey didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want her son’s head filled with that crap. It disappointed her._

_“You scared little shit,” he remembers her telling him, after he told her about some bullies at school. “You have to stand up to them. Face them.”_

_“What do you know about facing anything?” Tim snapped back, defiant. “All you do is run away.”_

_Tim wonders now if he’d been the reason she’d left, the reason she’d given up on him and his family. She was angry all the time. Everything had been Tim’s fault, and she had no problem telling her son that, all the while favoring his sisters._

_Tim could never stand it._

*

Running from one’s self is the longest way to run.

*

You’re standing outside your trailer smoking a cigarette when Tim’s Spectrum pulls into your driveway, kicking up dust. You check your watch. It’s almost midnight. You wonder what he’s doing here instead of his little block house over in Golden Valley. The two of you didn’t have any plans (although it wasn’t like he was unwelcome). 

The engine cuts out and you watch Tim stumble out of his car. It’s dark, but he seems shaky on his feet, and you watch as he struggles to close the door. 

You drop your cigarette in an empty beer bottle. “Tim?” you ask, stepping closer. His eyes are red. You catch him as he launches himself at you. “Fuck, Tim, what happened to you?” He’s wobbly, so you figure he must be drunk, but most shocking of all is the blood smeared across his temple. You catch his bicep. “Jesus,” you remark, taking it all in. “Come inside.”

You lead him through your front door and sit him down in the kitchen. You wince when you see his injuries in the light. What kind of trouble had he gotten himself into? 

“You gonna let me clean you up?”

Tim sulks while you grab a washcloth and wet it down. 

“Want to tell me about it?” you ask, pulling up a chair and sitting in front of him so you can dab at the gash in his eyebrow. He’s quiet as you wipe the blood from his face. “Who did this to you, Tim?”

Tim chews his lip and stares at your floor. “Talked to the wrong guy at the club, that’s all,” he says vaguely. You know he goes out on his own sometimes looking for a little company, finding queers at bars to fool around with. It’s not the friendliest place for guys like that around here, and you’d seen Tim get shit before, but not like this. He’d never come back to you bruised, bloody. When you pull the washcloth away from his face, the fabric is tinged pink with his blood. “I hate this,” Tim murmurs. “I just wanted to dance.” His face is overcast.

“Tell me what happened,” you say again softly. Maybe if he hadn’t been so lonely, maybe if you hadn’t been so focused on Lori, maybe he never would have gone out in the first place. You try to get rid of the thought.

Tim’s voice catches. “I was out,” he explains. “Had one drink too many and started flirting with this guy. Asked him to dance and it didn’t end too well,” he tells you sourly. “I thought he was interested, I thought… I didn’t realize until we were behind the bar that he only wanted to kick my ass.”

You look him up and down. Tim lifts up his shirt, showing you the bruises on his stomach. You wince.

“Tim…” You reach for him, start to pull him toward you, pull his head against your chest. He sighs, stiff at first, but eventually you feel him start to settle. He winds his skinny arms around your waist and buries a noise against your shoulder. Your heart swells. You run your hands across his shoulders down to his exposed forearms. 

Tim’s so sweet - sure, he can have an attitude but he’s one of the most gentle people you’ve ever met, paradoxically. Who would do this to him? It makes you mad. You should have been there, you think. You should have stopped him, should have done something. Tim can take care of himself, you remind yourself. You met in the Army, after all. He’s not weak even if he can be a little naive sometimes. He’s lucky he didn’t end up worse than this. 

You hold him closer without meaning to.

“I hate this. I hate myself for being like this,” he complains angrily. “Again!”

You realize painfully this might not be the first time. You can’t stand the idea of a young Tim being terrorized for his identity.

“I’m sorry,” he gurgles. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he says drunkenly. He tries to pull away. “I shouldn’t —” You get your arms around him so he can’t run off. 

“Stay here tonight. Lori’s at her parents.” You’d have made him stay with you even if she were asleep in your bedroom. It wouldn’t be the first time the three of you had curled up together in bed.

He sniffles but agrees. You pet his hair until he calms down. 

He follows you to your bedroom where you toss a clean shirt to him. “You want pajamas?”

Tim shakes his head. “I should go,” he murmurs, trying to stand up. 

You stop him in his tracks. “You’re not going anywhere,” you correct him. “Sit down,” you tell him, hoping he’ll just respond to your command. With a gentle hand you push him back down, worried it might freak him out but it seems to have the opposite effect. It calms him a little. You stroke your thumb over his collarbone over the loose fabric of his shirt. 

Tim wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“I don’t cry,” he says, angry, ashamed. He shuts his eyes, hiding a sob in his throat. You stroke your finger across his cheek, wiping away the tear.

“I didn’t see anything,” you swear to him. Tim’s quiet but grateful.

“Fuck. I’m a mess.”

You just go about your business, finding a bandaid to tape over his eyebrow. “It’s not going to scar,” you guarantee him. “So there’s that.”

Tim weasels his arms around your middle again. You know he doesn’t really want to go. “It’s okay,” you tell him, unsure if he’ll put up with it. Babying him is a bad idea.

“Is this my fuckin’ fault?”

He sounds… small. Why couldn’t you be enough?

“No, Tim.” You stroke his cheek with your thumb. “Here.” You reach for the hem of his shirt and lift it up and over his head, trying not to let him see how bothered you are by the mottled purple bruises on his abdomen. You make him hold his arms up so you can slip the clean tee over his head.

He looks down. “Metallica?”

“You want something different?”

He smiles. “No, no.” He hooks his finger in the collar and smells the fabric. “It smells like you.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No, I like it.”

You leave him alone for a second so you can scrounge for the remote control. You throw on the Sci-Fi Channel. It’s some _Star Trek_ rerun; Tim probably knows which series. You only recognize it because he’d already lectured you on the difference between _Star Trek_ and _Star Wars_ on at least two separate occasions. 

“Hey, this is a good episode,” Tim says, perking up. 

You get him to work his pants off his hips so you can pull them off his legs while he stares at the television screen, distracted. Clad in your shirt and boxers, he lays down sideways on your bed, propping himself up on an elbow. 

You kick your own pants off and reach for the lamp on the bedside table. 

“What the fuck is that?” you ask, pointing at the creature on screen.

“It’s a Klingon,” Tim explains. You sit behind him and lean closer to the TV, pretending you’re using the hand on him to hold yourself steady. You squeeze his bicep.

“I give up. Tell me what’s happening.”

He rests his head in your lap and starts catching you up. You trace your fingers along his skin as he explains everything to you.

“Lieutenant Worf’s father is being charged as a traitor on his Klingon homeworld. The Enterprise is flying there so Worf can defend his father’s honor.”

“Worf?! Isn’t that a Muppet?”

“No, that’s Rowlf,” he corrects you, without looking away from the screen.

You try not to ask _too_ many questions during the episode, fingertips dragging across Tim’s skin.

Tim yawns when the credits roll. You squeeze his arm.

“Feelin’ sleepy?”

“Kinda.”

“I think I’m gonna sleep… I’ll leave the TV on for you?”

“Wait a second,” Tim asks, and he rearranges himself next to you, resting his head on your shoulder.

“You don’t have to go to bed if you don’t want to.” He just shrugs and snuggles closer. It feels natural to have him at your side, and you wish he hadn’t gone out tonight. You wish he’d run to you instead. “Wake me up in the morning,” you tell him, knowing he’ll wake up before you will.

You turn the volume down a couple of notches and hand him the remote. He sticks it under his pillow and returns his attention to you. You know he’s seen all the episodes already.

You close your eyes and feel his lips on your neck, soft, gentle kisses.

“Tim.”

“Okay, okay,” he relents, putting his head down.

“You can always come to me,” you say quietly. You peer out of one eye.

Tim sneaks an arm around your waist. “I just… I didn’t want to need you so much,” he admits, “but look at me now,” he scoffs. 

You cuff him on the neck, sliding your hand up to the back of his head. His short hair bristles against your palm.

“Don’t sweat it.”

“I will, though.”

You start pressing kisses to his forehead, peppering them over his brow. “Tiiiim.”

He blanches.

“I’ll fuck your brains out anytime,” you promise. “Lori too, if you want.”

Tim accepts your kiss before burrowing against your side. “Thanks,” he murmurs sardonically. You can feel his lips moving against your skin as the word leaves his mouth, and then he settles.

You can’t tell if he’s watching the television anymore or not, but your eyes drift shut, and you sleep.


End file.
